


My Last Steward

by primsong



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Parody, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primsong/pseuds/primsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An adaptation of Browning's "My Last Duchess" with Denethor in mind, a touch tongue-in-cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Last Steward

**My Last Steward**   
_(based on My Last Duchess by Robert Browning)_

That's my last Steward dropping off the wall,  
Still kicking as if he were alive. I call  
That sight a wonder, now: For Gandalf's hands  
Worked busily this day, and there he goes.  
Will't please you sit and look at him fall? I said  
Yes, Gandalf's by design, for never underestimate  
Wizards like you might a man's skills,  
The depth and passion of his chosen art.  
From myself my Steward turned (since never I desired  
The pyre he did build for himself, not I)  
And seemed as he would ask me, if he durst,  
How such a king came here; so, not the first  
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not  
His son's fever only, called that shriek  
Of insanity unto the Steward's tongue: perhaps  
As Gandalf chanced to say "The mantle laps  
Over this lord's pride too much," or "Fireworks  
Must never hope to reproduce the faint  
Half-sparkle that died along his descent.": such stuff,  
Mere courtesy, I thought, and cause enough  
For calling up that insane shriek. A whistle? He had  
A mind-how shall I say?-too easily shaken,  
Too easily deceived; he believed whate'er  
He looked on, and his looks went everywhere.  
Sir, 'twas all one deceit! A palantir at his breast,  
The dropping of the fiery Steward off the cliff,  
A fall from such height - no officious fool  
To break that fall for him, because of the white tree  
He wears upon his chest -thus pride goeth down, each  
Spark draws from him quicker than bonfire,  
Clean flame, at least. He used refined oil -good! and copper  
Sulphate somehow-I know not how-perhaps from his ranking  
Embroidery. That title of a many-hundred-years-old rank  
Was too hard to give up. He'd stoop to blame,  
To a sort of trifling first. Even had he Saruman's skill  
In speech-which he had not-to make his will  
Quite clear with that crystal globe, and say, "Just this  
Or that in you I'll see; here I'll look,  
Or there I've aimed the mark"-and if he let  
Himself be drawn in so, it plainly outstripped  
His wits!, forsooth, he made excuses,  
-E'en then would he come stooping; though I choose  
Never to stoop. Oh sir, he smiled, no doubt,  
Whene'er I passed him; but who passed without  
Much the same hideous smile? This grew; I gave commands;  
Then all smiles stopped together. There he flails,  
As if yet alive. See the flames and sparks rise? He'll meet  
That haywagon below, then. I say,  
Gandalf's a master with fireworks, known in municipality  
And country, I'll warrant, and that no pretense  
Of mine. Colored sparks! Ah, let them not be disallowed;  
Though his fair fire's craft, as I avowed  
Is just starting, it is my delight. Nay we'll go  
Together to the ale-tent now, sir. Notice those hobbits, though,  
Chugging a half-gallon, as if that ale were a rarity  
Which Elrond of Rivendell brewed especially for me!


End file.
